Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Sometimes I find I get to thinking of the past. Reflecting
on my boyhood, it is astounding that I, or my sibling, survived into our
teenage years, yet alone middle age.

My infancy was littered with stupid deeds, too numerous to
list in their entirety. But a few remain at the forefront of my memory, not
least because each could have led to a fatality. Like the time I nearly killed
my brother.

“I wonder if I could fit inside that suitcase,” said Tony,
as we both lay on the floor in our parents’ bedroom one rainy afternoon,
wrestling with boredom.

Tony is my older brother, five years my senior, and (on the
evidence of this story) just as dumb as me – perhaps stupidity is in the genes!
The “can we fit in a suitcase” game seemed appealing to my five-year-old mind,
so I squealed with enthusiasm at the prospect and instantly rose to my feet.

“No, I’ll go first,” said my commanding big brother; I knew
from previous experience that there was no point in arguing with him. I
watched, admiringly, as Tony climbed inside the suitcase, adopted an
extra-coiled version of the foetal position, and asked me to shut the lid. “But
whatever you do, don’t lock it.”

Perhaps a child psychiatrist would today label my behaviour
as indicative of “oppositional defiant disorder,” but I often found that a
request not to carry out a specific action immediately induced an urge to do
so. I dutifully closed the suitcase.

“Told you I could do it.” The muffled sound of my brother’s
voice, seeping through the lid, was almost inaudible.

“What would happen if I pressed this metal thingy on here?”
I asked.

Fifty years on, I think my brother’s retort was,
“Nooooooo…,” but I can’t be sure, as the sounds leaking from the case seemed
distorted and breathy. Anyway, I pushed one of the two metal fasteners on the
case and it clicked into place. I immediately tried to unlock it but by my
five-year-old mind did not have the wherewithal to realize that, to achieve
this aim, I would need to slide the catch outwards with my thumb. Instead, I
tugged at the fastener, but to no avail.

The indistinct sounds from inside the case rose an octave,
and were accompanied by repeated knocking noises. I think I recall
hearing “I can’t breathe” and whimpers that seemed to originate from miles away
but were, in retrospect, coming from the locked valise in front of me. I tried
lifting the unlocked end of the lid, and wafting my hand under its lip while
repeating, “Have some air,” but the panicky cries from inside suggested my
actions were not having the desired effect.

When my brother could no longer be heard, I ran downstairs
to find mum who was washing clothes in the kitchen.

“I think Tony’s dead,” I said, standing guiltily in the
doorway. Mum sped upstairs, immediately recognized what had happened – as mum’s
do – and flicked the suitcase catch to release my brother. As he gingerly got
to his feet, I recall his ashen features. Copious amounts of sweat and tears
rolled down his cheeks, and he was panting in a way that reminded me of how our
dog behaved after a long walk on a sultry day.

But mum seemed unfazed, as if her heroics were all part of a
typical day – perhaps they were. “Keep out of the suitcases,” she said,
nonchalantly, as she returned to her dolly tub and mangle (wringer).

As for Tony, he continues to have a fear about confined
spaces; strange that!

Wednesday, 15 October 2014

I recently celebrated my 56th birthday. Maybe
“celebrate” is the wrong word; once you reach a certain age, the central
function of birthdays is to act as a reminder that you are another year closer
to oblivion.

Throughout my life, I’ve never attached much significance to birthday cards, sending or receiving. On the occasion of my 56th,
three of them landed on my doormat and it later struck me how their content
seemed to capture – albeit in an offbeat kind of way - the essence of my
current situation.

Courtesy of David
Castillo Dominici at
FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Card number 1 was from my 20-year-old daughter. The envelope
was addressed, “To the old man”. Emblazoned on the front of the card was,
“Happy 60th birthday”. I suspect she has always viewed me as her
“old” dad since she popped into this world two decades ago. And at least she
spared me the “old git” jibe that has decorated some of her previous
communications.

Card number 2 was from my parents, both now in their
mid-80s. The picture consisted of a bright red racing car, the sort of card you
might send to an 18-year-old boy-racer shortly after he’d passed his driving
test. The age-inappropriateness of the birthday greeting indicated that they
still view me as their youngest child, their baby, despite the fact that I’m
not far away from drawing an old-age pension.

Card number 3 was from my wife. The verse within was
beautiful, proclaiming her unstinting love for me over the 33 years we’ve been
together. Reading it moistened my eyes. That was until I noticed that the front
of the card read, “Happy anniversary to my wonderful husband”. She had
purchased the card on the day we had been out together in Manchester city
centre, wining and dining, leaving me in the pub while she nipped across the
road to the card shop; a combination of moderate alcohol intoxication and long-sightedness
had led to the error.

My 23-year old son didn’t send a card. When he
(coincidentally) called round later in the day,he confessed that he
had forgotten it was my birthday. “Happy birthday, paps”, he said, as way of
atonement when I reminded him. “Are you going to treat me to a couple of
pints?”

On the night of my birthday, just prior to switching off the
lights, I gazed at my three cards on the shelf above the fireplace. In an
inspirational instant it struck me how love can be expressed in a multitude of
ways. I smiled, turned and went to bed. I slept well.